BRITANNIA, they who perished here have crowned thee—
Have proved the dauntless temper of thy soul;
Great memories of the past, through them have found thee
Intrepid as of old, untouched and whole.
Triumphant Mother! Make an end to sighing
For these, thrice happy!—with sonorous breath
Let bugles sing their requiem who are lying
In all the full magnificence of death!
They knew not failure: dream and aspiration
They knew, indeed, and love, and noble joy;
And at the last faith brought them the elation
That Destiny is powerless to destroy.
The utmost summit of desire attaining,
What further is there left deserving strife?
Ah, there is still the peerless hope remaining,—
In death to prove one's worthiness of life!
Sublime thy grief, Britannia! sons have crowned thee—
With hard-won laurels have enwreathed thy name:
Have shown the world the bulwark set around thee,
Adding new consecration to thy fame.
Nor have they blessed thee, only: Fate defying,
Others in lands remote shall fear contemn,
And find it easier, themselves denying,
To die like heroes, too,—remembering them.
They do not lie in lonely graves forsaken,
Who for high ends can so supremely dare;
From human hearts they can no more be taken,
And Immortality is with them there.